ReWrite: Battle Of The Brothers
by MycroftsAngelEyes
Summary: Mycroft has a plan... it'll work because it's one of Mycroft's plans but it works too well and there's a problem with the outcome.. heartache, angst, drama, whump are all part and parcel so come read and enjoy  this has been re-written :D
1. Chapter 1

**This is what my mind conjures up when I'm bored and I have nothing to do because I can't sleep (stupid brain can't you shut up! God now I know how Sherlock feels...)**

**REWRITE!**

**Mycroft/John hinting (although John's suitably horrified by the idea hehe) and Sherlock/John (naturally).**

**Enjoy**

**Kasey**

**...**

**...**

**THE PLAN!**

**...**

**...**

It was late and the sun had already gone down below the natural horizon as well as the manmade one that tower above the mere speckles on the pavement that were people hurrying home to escape the approaching darkness. He was too busy to pay attention where he was going because damnit if he wasn't going to kill Sherlock when he got home then he was going to take it out on one of the body parts in the freezer! Just because the anti-social, sociopathic pain-in-the-arse couldn't be bothered getting up and going out to the shop to buy his own supplies for his hare-brained experiments didn't mean that he should be out here, in the light drizzle and darkening world hauling three bags of stuff from the nearest open corner-shop. He was going to kill him, of that he was certain; he just needed to get back to Baker Street first though.

He was so busy internally mumbling to himself about the many and varied ways he could kill Sherlock and dispose of the gangly body that he didn't notice the black Mercedes pull up alongside the kerb and a well-dressed man step out into the now strengthening rain and open an umbrella, an umbrella which he promptly held over his head as he walked over to John and began to stroll alongside him, the umbrella naturally protecting him from the worse of the rain. He was so surprised by the lack of cold moisture hitting his face and the back of his neck that he looked up and stared at the person holding the umbrella for a full minute before he spoke.

"Mycroft," he frowned in confusion as the eldest of the two Holmes brother's smiled kindly at John and reached out with his free hand to take one of the bags from John's silently-protesting right arm; it felt strange to him when Mycroft's hand brushed against his own as the taller man took the bag and continued to stroll alongside the incredibly confused doctor.

"John," Mycroft acknowledged, still smiling as he continued walking and John nearly stopped walking altogether because he couldn't have heard correctly; Mycroft just called him by his first name, his first name and Mycroft Holmes didn't do that. Mycroft Holmes was professional down to a T, he did not talk to people as though they were friends because he was a business man, though what type of business he worked in John didn't really want to know because he was certain that he'd end up even more paranoid than he already was; heck he was sure that the cameras around London had been following him for the last fortnight!

"It's not the nicest weather for a stroll you know John?" Mycroft said in a tone of voice that John hadn't heard the man use before and it took him a moment to recognise it, and when he did he felt inclined to run or die of shock alternatively; Mycroft sounded like he was... flirting with him, he sounded playful and like he felt... something for John beyond curiosity and now John really did want to die of shock because he knew that Mycroft would find him wherever he ran and why did people keep assuming he was gay!

"Yes well, Sherlock's got a couple of experiments that he wants to carry out so I was sent to get the supplies," he replied keeping most of his bitterness and annoyance out of his voice as they turned onto Baker Street and John realised that the Mercedes was still there, crawling alongside them and he felt compelled to ask, "why are you walking next to me when your car's not two-feet away?"

"Why are you walking when you could be in _my car_ that's not two-feet away?" Mycroft countered almost immediately and it was the way in which the man said 'my car' that made John blush and almost beg for Sherlock to appear and divert his brother's attention because he was not comfortable with this... really, he wasn't... well, he sort of wasn't... well... he might not mind that much but he wasn't used to someone coming onto him in the rain, holding an umbrella and wearing a pin-striped suit matched with a smile that would melt most girls, and guys.

"I was walking before you came along with your car," he answered lamely knowing that it sounded like he was arguing like a child but he didn't care because he was embarrassed, no not embarrassed, feeling embarrassed would have been a Godsend... no he felt... flattered? And a little turned on... oh God! He didn't have a thing for Mycroft... did he? Oh he hoped not...

Mycroft chuckled and his voice did things to John that he'd only ever thought Sherlock's voice could do, but it seemed that drawing out unintentional responses from him was something the two Holmes brother's had in common; God bloody damn them! They reached the front door of 221 b and John awkwardly fished in his pockets for the key whilst Mycroft stood close, too close, holding the umbrella over his head so the lashing rain didn't drown him although was kind of wishing it would. It seemed like an age to him when he finally managed to get the key out of his pocket and he accidentally bumped into Mycroft who, like Sherlock, obviously had no concept of personal space and he dived through the door as though he'd been doused in boiling hot water. Standing two steps into the landing of 221 b Baker Street John turned and looked at Mycroft who was still standing on the threshold, holding the bag of stuff in one delicate-looking hand and the umbrella in the other and though John wanted to take the bag and bid Mycroft goodnight the natural gentleman in him, the one that his parents had raised, came to the fore and he found himself asking, "do you want to come in for a cup of tea?"

And he could have happily killed himself when Mycroft's response was a raised eyebrow, a provocative smile and a polite, "if you insist" though John could definitely hear the seductive undercurrent to that statement. Mycroft stepped over the threshold, simultaneously placing the bag on the floor at John's feet, his head dipping lower than was strictly necessary and closer to his own, whilst he closed the umbrella and placed it against the wall.

Taking a deep breath John grabbed the bags and set off up the stairs with Mycroft trailing behind him in much the same manner Sherlock did, like he was stalking his prey and didn't that just make John feel better? He opened the door to the sitting area and looked around for Sherlock, who was apparently nowhere to be seen and he wasn't sure whether he should be worried or relieved about that, but he focused on depositing the bags of stuff on the table in the kitchen which Sherlock had cleared of his usual chemistry set for this new experiment he was planning.

"How do you have your tea?" he asked as he filled the kettle up and turned it on. He looked across at Mycroft who seemed to have made himself comfortable in John's chair, not Sherlock's, John's, and he waited for the man to answer.

"Black, no sugar please John," Mycroft answered in a near purr and it made John's eyes widen as he resolutely focused his attention on the fascinating concept of making a cup of tea. It was rather funny to observe, especially due to the fact that John as so intent on making the cups of tea that he didn't notice how Mycroft slipped out of the chair and crept up behind him until there was a strange sensation of hot breath on the back of his neck.

Slowly, ever so slowly, John turned around and looked up into the rather lustful gaze of Mycroft Holmes and the only thing John could think was, _'I always thought it'd be Sherlock'_ as Mycroft dove in and kissed him, without hesitation, without consideration, without any thought. And John didn't know whether or not he was kissing back because the kiss lasted all of two seconds before John was aware of Mycroft being bodily thrown away from him and another, very possessive grip, settling itself around him.

"Out," a dark and damn near deadly voice said so quietly that it made John shiver and the grip around him tightened almost as though it liked the idea of him shivering. John had a feeling who was holding him but he found that his brain was kind of dead in the water at the moment; he'd been kissed by Mycroft Holmes and that was all he knew, apart from the fact that whoever was holding him really didn't like sharing.

For the most part, Mycroft was sort of hanging off the kitchen counter, half-splayed out on the floor nursing a rather spectacular looking split-lip and John wondered briefly if he'd done that when they'd kissed but his brain was still dead at the moment so nothing was really computing. Mycroft slowly and carefully picked himself up off the floor, fixed his suit jacket which had been ruffled in his impromptu date with the ground, and smiled at John and whoever was holding him so possessively close, "well I think my I'd best be on my way; I do hope you don't catch a cold John, the weather's been absolutely awful."

A low, murderous growl emanated from whoever was gripping him and John wondered if he should say anything but like his brain his voice just wasn't working so he settled for nodding dumbly as Mycroft sauntered past, smirking despite the split-lip and let himself out of the flat.

It was almost a full minute before John's brain managed to actually kick-start itself back to life and with its sudden revival he realised what had happened; all of it. He'd been walking home from the shop, Mycroft had appeared, flirted with him, he'd invited him in, been making a cuppa and then he'd been getting kissed, then Mycroft was flying and he was being held by whoever was holding him now; whoever had pale skin and was a lot taller than him. He managed to turn around in the embrace and he came face-to-face with Sherlock who was staring at him with such an intense stare, which John realised was real, true want that when he opened his mouth to speak he found himself being kissed for the second time that night; only this time it was with the one person he'd wanted to kiss for weeks, months even.

It was intense, it was like the first day of spring when the snow's all melted and the countryside comes alive with activity, the butterflies floating by and the bumble bees buzzing past and the all the lambs and sheep and animals bleating and barring and just telling people that they were there. It was like the birth of a star in deep space, spontaneous and beautiful but over in such a short time in the history of the universe. It was like being swept beneath the waves and slowly drowning in the divine brilliance that was Sherlock Holmes. It was like all the most beautiful and wanted things that man had ever required and wished for rolled into one and given a name. It was in a word, sublime.

And when it ended, for it did indeed have to end, his forehead rested against Sherlock's own and his breaths came out in pants and gasps as the man holding him like the world was trying to drag him away growled decisively, "mine... my John..."

And John's world burned in a fiery passion.

**...**

**...**

In his black Mercedes Guardian, Mycroft carefully dabbed the split-lip he had received from his brother with the handkerchief that not-Anthea had so graciously supplied and he knew that she didn't need to ask whether or not his plan had been a success, even if he'd had to improvise slightly. He looked out of the window absentmindedly as they pulled away from the kerb and set-off for his home where he'd been dropped off to go about his business and sleep in an empty bed, thinking about what he'd just done. True he'd done this entire thing with the initial intent to get his brother and Doctor Watson... John... together but the problem was he hadn't been anticipating his own response to it all; namely the kiss and then the feeling of want for the doctor as his younger brother had held the somewhat shell-shocked man closely. He had never given any thought to the concept of wanting someone in such a way but it seemed that he now wanted someone; the only problem was that his brother already had him.

But it wouldn't stop him from at least wanting John... because it made no sense to want someone who was so... plain and predictable but... if he was so plain and predictable then why did the man start to kiss back? Why did the man do the unpredictable? Why did the man seem to be concerned with Mycroft? Why? Why?

Why was this man so fascinating to him? It made no sense...

But, Mycroft muse sullenly, love rarely did.

**...**

**...**

**TBC...**

**I'm making this into an actual fic rather than a one shot because this plot's too good to ignore! And there aren't that many Mycroft/John based fics around (although... Sherlock/John is my preference :P)**

**Tell me what you think people.**

**Kasey**


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay, this is the next section of the fic I had originally done as a one-shot (but the plot bunny wouldn't go away!) so therefore you have this, you'd best like it though I apologise in advance; I haven't done smut-writing in such a long time that I've had a bit of difficulty getting back into the mindset (I blame my TW fics for having drained me dry of my smut-writing ability).**

**Anyway, enjoy and tell me what you think (I'm going to try and get as much of this done as possible before I start college so you may or may not get a million, gazillion updates in the next few days... it depends :P)**

**Kasey**

**...**

**CHAPTER ONE**

**...**

**PASSION, DESIRE AND LONGING TOO**

…

…

"_**Passion, it lies in all of us, sleeping... waiting... and though unwanted... unbidden... it will stir... open its jaws and howl. It speaks to us... guides us... passion rules us all, and we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love... the clarity of hatred... and the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion maybe we'd know some kind of peace... but we would be hollow... Empty rooms shuttered and dank. Without passion we'd be truly dead.**__**" - **_**Joss Whedon quotes****(****American Screenwriter****)**

**...**

**...**

Standing in the bathroom at four-fifteen in the morning Sherlock absent-mindedly washed his hands for the third time since he'd awoke approximately two hours ago; he hated doing this, he hated falling back into such a habit as this but he had a sound defence, he'd just had mind-blowing sex literally. Alright, technically it had been nearly six hours ago since then but that's semantics and Sherlock didn't care for semantics unless he was the one who was pointing them out to people. His mind, against his strictest orders, kept flashing back to the previous night and to what had caused him to act upon his confusing and contradictive desires.

_He was washing his hands after the partially sticky-substance from his latest experiment had been knocked by his elbow and in his hurry to stop it from actually sticking to his phone his hand had landed in the green, snot-like substance. It wasn't exactly a nice thing to have on his hands but it was much preferred to the phosphorous acid that had been in the beaker next to the sticky-snot; he quite liked the idea of having his hands and the layers of epidermis skin on them intact and not partially corroded. _

_Sighing quietly, for contrary to common belief he wasn't a fan of noise unless it was his violin or part of an experiment and so he was quite happy to sit in silence as long as his mind was occupied, he turned the tap off and began to towel his hands dry using one of the few clean and intact towels in the flat when he heard the sound of John entering the flat; he wondered why he hadn't heard him coming up the stairs but he reasoned that the water from the tap had overrode any other ambient sounds that he would have otherwise heard. He ran a hand through his hair in an attempt to tame it for it looked far too much like the hair style that Einstein had and he wasn't that crazy, not really at least, but he did wonder why he felt compelled to try and fix his hair now that John was in the flat; any other time and he would have left it to look like he'd been electrocuted. Muffled voices could be heard from the sitting room of the flat and as Sherlock began to briskly walk towards the sitting room, hurrying down the stairs and slipping on his suit jacket that he'd had the sense to remove before starting his experiment, he thought that John was talking to someone who wasn't Mrs Hudson because really, you could hear that woman a mile away._

The water pouring from the tap seemed to be alternating between boiling hot and freezing cold, almost as if it couldn't decide on which extreme temperature it preferred, and Sherlock repressed the urge to hiss out as the water returned to burning his hands. The memories from the previous evening were continuing to play out in his mind as though they were a film and he was a viewer.

_He walked into the sitting room and looked around for John but he couldn't see him so he guessed he was in the kitchen and as he began to move across the room his eyes befell the obvious sign that there was indeed someone else in the flat, and not someone he liked. Striding towards the kitchen Sherlock froze on the threshold in abject shock at the sight he saw; Mycroft, his brother, and John, his friend, his friend, kissing. No not kissing, kissing was much too tame a term for what he was observing with wide-eyes; this was like they were trying to suck each other's faces off!_

_Something inside of his snapped, a finite blow to him and everything about him had landed and it spurred him into action, words and thoughts and reason abandoned him in such a flurry of activity that all that was left in their wake was a raw, burning, fiery anger. Anger so intense that it made him want to snap his own brother, his thieving brother; he never let him have anything!_

Sherlock's hands shook slightly under the facet of now freezing water as he watched this scene play out as though he were an observer in the Globe Theatre in the time of Shakespeare; he so desperately wanted to reach out and to have stopped it from ever having happened, stopped Mycroft, but he was an observer and nothing he said or did now could change what had happened like a choreographed routine.

_He was barely aware that he was moving as his hands balled into fists and his muscles all became taught and tension-filled but he was definitely aware of the fact that his right hand fist was suddenly coming up and colliding with Mycroft's left-hand side of his chest and he was also aware of the fact that he essentially threw his older, supposedly more-mature, brother bodily away from his John._

_And then his arm was pulling at his John and wrapping itself around him as a passionate urge to show that John was his arose in his chest and he happily acquiesced to it without preamble. His words were growled out as he fought with the urge to attack and hurt his own blood, the traitor, the thief, and his grip around John became tighter for every moment that Mycroft remained in their flat._

Sherlock looked up at the bathroom mirror and glared, though he wasn't seeing his own reflection, as he thought of the behaviour that Mycroft had exhibited when he'd managed to, with relative grace, pick himself up from the floor and leave.

_Mycroft's eyes took in Sherlock and John, one of whom was glaring the most deadly look at him and the other looking a bit shell-shocked, and for a brief moment, too brief for anyone but Sherlock to have seen, there was longing in his eyes, like he wanted what Sherlock now so obviously had and it had both confused and angered Sherlock long enough for his brother to slip out of the kitchen, down the stairs and out of the door. _

The concept that Mycroft liked John, as in liked 'liked' him made Sherlock's stomach turn because he was terrified that he might lose John to his brother, Mycroft was better in almost every aspect compared to Sherlock; his brother was socially capable whereas Sherlock could probably offend a llama, his brother had power and never blew things up anymore whereas Sherlock had contacts who were homeless people and a penchant for making things that went boom, his brother was every bit the type of man that John would probably go for even though he wasn't gay, as he had so often reminded everyone, and Sherlock was the sociopathic nut-job that liked to whip corpses. When looking at it that way there really was no competition for normal people.

Though John was not what Sherlock would call normal, he was dull, predictable and boring when he wanted to be but no man could be considered to be socially normal if they liked running around London chasing after the criminals and shot them just to save someone they'd only just met. But Sherlock couldn't help but wishing that people were more like John and less like their dull, predictable, simple and mundane selves; but then that would mean that John wasn't as special, as unique as Sherlock knew he was and he liked the idea that he and John weren't really meant for normal society.

Finally turning the tap off Sherlock dried his hands and forcibly turned away from the sink and left the bathroom, quickly knocking off the light with a flick of his hand, and moved towards the sitting room. Clad in only his boxers and his suit pants Sherlock's plain and smooth torso shone with an ethereal luminescence that could have rivalled the moon with all of her pale mournfulness. The reflective glare of the street lamps streaming through the windows in the sitting area bathed the room with an orange glow that made Sherlock look like some sort of mythical creature, almost like one could imagine what an elfin creature from the old myths and legends would look like if they were real; marble skin clear of imperfection, startling eyes that glowed and flashed as each beam of orange light illuminated them, absolute beauty. A living statue that could bleed and cry and love and feel like he was able to fly when he held in his arms the other unique creature that no-one dared to believe could be real; together he and John were like endangered creatures and a rarity is what they were because there were none like them. They completed each other, they fixed each other, they l-loved each other more than a mere mortal of dullard standard could ever comprehend and it made Sherlock smile to imagine, to remember, how John felt.

_Panted breaths were hot and fevered as they landed on his pure and ivory-white skin. Low keening echoed around the room as desperate wanton abandonment was yearned for. Impassioned gazes locked as eyes bespoke of what words alone could never do for words could never suffice when touch and sight could take the lead. Soft and feather-like swirls of long, delicate fingers ran mesmerizingly down the weathered and scarred flesh that whispered to him of all the pain and hurt ever dealt upon the one trapped beneath him. _

"_Sherlock!" Whispery words repeated over and over conjoined with the keening and it brought to him renewed feelings of overwhelming desire as he touches and his heartbeat became more and more pronounced, the thudding in his ribcage telling him he could feel just like any other whilst the feather-like fingers played tantalisingly with the naked flesh beneath his own body. _

_Desperate bucking from the one trapped beneath him and he smiled a passionate smile as his head lowered to meet the one straining to reach him, lips impacting with deliberate softness as words and keening was replaced with low moans of pleasure from both. Oh how this shouldn't end, oh how this should last for eternity for it was pure bliss for them both._

_His tongue darted out, pressing with gentle permission upon the lips of the one beneath him, asking for entry without demanding in desperation; his tongue slipped in as those lips on his opened up and allowed him entrance into another world of almost divine experience. Sensual strokes of his tongue along molar and canine and gum and upper and lower lips brought about a cacophony of sounds and urges from both as it fired their synapses with such fierce passion that their light-headedness had nothing to do with the lack of oxygen and more so to do with the sheer majestic passion that their embrace heralded to them both._

He leant against the wall as the memories were played back, his legs weak and he wanted desperately to relive the experience because it had been beyond perfect for him; perfection was something he'd thought he'd never truly achieve but it seemed that his perfection was slumbering deeply, fitfully, in the room he was outside of, his hair ruffled and his face lax and smooth Sherlock knew John Watson was his way to perfection and he quite liked the idea of perfection as long as it included John along with.

When his legs found that they had the strength to bear his own weight he hurried down the stairs and into the sitting room where he curled himself up in his chair and grasped his violin silently in his long, talented fingers and waited for John to awaken so the man could see everything that Sherlock wanted him to.

**...**

**...**

He had arrived home in silence, not speaking or acknowledging anything, as the car pulled up on the gravel outside the main entrance to his rather sizeable mansion. He had entered his home, only speaking in order to bid not-Anthea goodnight, and had moved straight to his master bedroom bypassing the dining room where diner had been lain out for him as it usually was every night he stayed in his own home and not some five-star hotel. In his room he had quickly stripped himself of his clothing, removing the suit he wore to show how powerful and sophisticated he was, and slipped into his hand-tailored, silken pyjamas and he lay down on his bed, not bothering to climb under the covers as he stared blankly at the high-ceiling that had been painted by a group of artists whose ability could rival that of Michael Angelo.

Mycroft stared at the various images high above him, focusing on one image in particular which showed two lovers holding each other tightly in their impassioned embrace, naked but their bodies each hid one another's modesty and Mycroft scowled at the faces because his mind, tired and confused, twisted the facial features of the two lovers into those of Sherlock and John... John Watson...

He snarled audibly at the image and thought to himself that tomorrow he was going to have another group of artists come in and redecorate as he hauled himself off of his bed and moved across the room to the double doors, which he threw open and revealed another room which was smaller but still expensively furnished. He looked up at the ceiling and smiled as he beheld nothing but plain white, he would sleep here tonight because he just couldn't bear to see those lovers, not now.

Throwing himself onto the bed he simply grabbed the other side of the covers and wrapped it around him, not bothering to climb under the covers, closed his eyes and tried to avoid thinking about John Watson and everything his mind was now conjuring up of what he would and could do to him if he ever bedded him.

No, not if, when.

**...**

**...**

John came to awareness slowly but surely, stretching an arm out, his left one incidentally, and froze as his still sleep-addled mind acknowledged the fact that he felt... rested and as though he hadn't had a single nightmare; which of course he hadn't. It had been so long since he'd slept without experiencing night-terrors that the feeling of being fully-rested felt strange and foreign to him. He recalled nothing of burning bodies or missing limbs, nothing of bloodied sands and twisted screeches of pain and anguish, nothing of a burnished sun shining down on a battlefield, he simply recalled a warmth attached to him and something, someone, holding him as his mind drifted into unconsciousness.

Opening his eyes slowly he blinked once, twice and then a third time for good measure as his mind began to regale him with flashbacks of what had happened before.

_He turned around and looked up into his face and before he could do or say anything those lips descended and he was suddenly being kissed in a manner completely alien and yet so normal to him that he couldn't comprehend anything beyond the feelings it elicited in him. It was over as quickly as it began though as the one who was kissing him was suddenly gone and an arm was wrapped around him in possessive anger; he quite liked it, to be wanted so much._

_And then another kiss, looking up into Sherlock's face, the face of the one person he'd always thought would be the first one to kiss him in so long, and there was so much passion, so much raw feeling poured into it that he could do nothing but become pliant and submissive in the embrace of his detective._

Sitting up suddenly John's chest heaved as his mind replayed a rather intimate and highly provocative moment in the impassioned night he'd just experienced. He could feel his heart beating loudly like a drum in an orchestra; constant, repetitive, powerful and his breathing hitched slightly.

_He was beneath him, trapped by those long suppliant legs with their sinewy tendons and flexible ligaments that gave the man above him such natural grace. Soft, teasing fingers trailed along his chest so lightly that it made his already sensitive flesh all the more charged, it was torturously magnificent and he keened and moaned and gasped with each sudden swirl of those pianist fingers as they played him as well as any musician could play an instrument. His heart was the drum, his breathing the cello, his gasps and moans the violins playing in unison liked a stringed concerto and his words gasped and shouted out were the highs and lows, the impassioned and sorrowful notes that rung out loudly from a choir of angelic praise. _

Shivering John quickly and silently levered himself out of bed, wincing at the twinge he felt in his legs, proof that his memories were true and he hadn't dreamed it all. He slipped on his boxers and his pants, debating whether or not to pull on his shirt as well but he forewent that suggestion as he moved across the room and opened the door.

_It was strange to him but not new, this feeling of someone inside of him was something he'd experienced before but it was the man who was sheathed inside of him now that made the difference. This was something he would never forget, something he would never have to fantasise or dream about, this was fact and he loved every second of it. Throwing his head back into his pillow he moaned loudly and almost cried out when Sherlock began to move inside of him, sliding out of him almost completely before slamming back in faster and faster as passion and desire overrode logic and reason and soon they were both gasping and moaning and crying out for each other. They came together as they kissed and he felt like he was in heaven when stars and fireworks exploded all around him, and the white muteness engulfed him for moments before he became aware of a panting mass of beauty lying suppliant upon him._

He bit his lip to stop himself from moaning as his mind conjured up that particular memory and swiftly stamped on the urge to go find Sherlock and drag him to bed just so he could relive the magic he'd spent a night immersed in. Stepping out onto the landing he listened for any sounds of Sherlock but he couldn't hear anything and he wondered, panicked slightly, where Sherlock had disappeared off to but he didn't have to wonder for long because the sound of a violin could suddenly be heard echoing around the flat.

He stood on the landing in silence not daring to move for fear of breaking the spell being weaved by each of the notes whispering around the confines of the flat, he listened to the soft notes, the high tension and the deep desire that the notes sang to him. It was beautiful and haunting, magical and heartbreaking in the sheer amount of emotion that you could tell was being poured into each and every note as they were created by the masterful skill of a creature of myth who was seated in his chair, eyes closed and a smile gracing his lips as the memories in his mind too conjured up this... this humanised divinity.

Slowly he moved along the landing, down the stairs and into the sitting area where his heart stuttered and his breathing hitched at the sight before him. But though he wanted to, he did not move nor speak as he listened and observed the man before him bearing his heart for all present to see and hear; him, John Watson.

**...**

**...**

**TBC...**

**Don't hurt me for this... you have to know what happens next so you can't hurt me otherwise you'll never know (master plan see :P)**

**Tell me what you think of this thus far please... :D**

**Kasey**


	3. Chapter 3

**Well, I've done a re-write of this (which is this actually :p) I hope you like it and will enjoy it**

**Kasey**

**...**

**CHAPTER TWO**

**...**

**DROWNING IN MY SORROW, BURNING IN YOUR EYES**

**...**

"_**There's one sad truth in life I've found**__**  
**__**While journeying east and west -**__**  
**__**The only folks we really wound**__**  
**__**Are those we love the best.**__**  
**__**We flatter those we scarcely know,**__**  
**__**We please the fleeting guest,**__**  
**__**And deal full many a thoughtless blow**__**  
**__**To those who love us best."**_**  
****Ella Wheeler Wilcox**

**...**

**...**

The simple fact that Sherlock and John were now actually a couple, as most people had commonly assumed upon first meeting them, didn't really change any of the dynamics between them; sure Sherlock was a bit politer and considerate of John and his opinions but he still insulted him and ordered him about like he before, and John for the most part didn't just stand there in silence whenever they were at a crime scene he would get inbetween Sherlock and everyone else, tempering the man with tantalising promises and promiscuous gazes along his long, lean figure. Essentially, together they were exactly the same, if a little more relaxed, and Anderson and Donovan, whose relationship had crashed and burned spectacularly after they pushed Sherlock too far, constantly prodded and poked at them trying desperately to gain a response because their insignificant lives were so very pathetic and mundane.

And, like any other couple, they had arguments. Oh heavens did they have arguments! Most normal couples would probably shout and scream at one another for a period of time before making themselves scarce but they always seemed to argue about inconsequential things; _**'Who left the back door open!' 'Why is the cat in the shower?' 'Are you cheating on me!'**_ and so on. John and Sherlock however did not constitute as being a _normal_ couple and so their arguments were anything but simple; mainly because Sherlock always seemed to win.

But for once Sherlock didn't feel like he'd won, for once Sherlock felt like he'd lost, an epic fail, as John glared at him and said quietly, venomously, "Well, since I'm not important in your little world I'll just be going," before turning on his heel and striding from the sitting room, down the stairs all seventeen steps, and out of the front door, slamming it for good measure. He wanted to go after him, he wanted to run along the streets looking until he found him, he wanted to hold him in his arms and shake his head and say that he was sorry, so sorry, and he wanted to hug him and show him that he didn't mean it, that he was just being a stupid arse because he couldn't figure it out, he couldn't solve it and that it wasn't John's fault. But he didn't do any of that.

He rose from his armchair and moved over to John's ratty-chair where he stood and stared at it in silence for such a long time before slipping into it and curling his legs up beneath, laying his head on his folded arms and whispering quietly, brokenly, "I'm sorry..."

**...**

**...**

John stomped out into the rain that was lashing down, not really caring about it or the fact that in only his jacket he was likely to end up getting a cold, he didn't care about anything because he was so angry and so hurt. He shouldn't be though, and he knew that, he knew that this was the way Sherlock was and there was no reason for him to react like because he'd never done this before... before they'd... you know.

Looking up into the streetlight that hadn't been smashed up by youths, yet, he blinked rapidly as the little droplets of cold indifference rained down on him, reflecting the orange of the streetlight that blinded him, and tried to clear his mind and heart of the anger he could feel coursing through his veins as surely as his blood did. He'd always quite liked the rain, the way in which it could drain you and drown you in something other than yourself, the way it could wash away everything upon which you dwell, the way it muffled the world and drowned the noise of life whilst it poured down from high up above the pointless existence of man. But it wasn't doing anything other than soaking him tonight and he cursed Sherlock for that fact as well.

Deciding that he needed a drink, and this was proof of how far Sherlock had finally pushed him because he hated drinking, he made his way through the streets of London towards the nearest pub where he non-too-graciously ordered a screwdriver aka Vodka on ice with an orange slice. He kept on ordering them, throwing money at the barman who just shook his head and kept the drinks coming.

After the first three he began to feel more relaxed and he had always cursed the fact that he could hold his liqueur better than his sister, or his father, because it had always meant him paying more and having to drink more so he could approach the 'completely-wasted' stage, but he didn't care about how much he could handle because all he wanted to do was run away from reality and drown in oblivion because he was pretty sure Sherlock wasn't there so he'd be safe.

It had only been nine-thirty when he'd stomped through the doors of the pub and when midnight came around and the pub was baron save for him he stumbled out of the door and into the cold London night. He should probably go home, back to Baker Street, back to Sherlock, but he didn't want to so he began walking; and kept walking further and further away from home and closer to the Thames and Westminster Bridge. He liked London at night, it wasn't as hectic or desperate as it was in the day but it still wasn't entirely dead and silent like towns and villages where the occupants all go to bed at ten o'clock and wake at six. London was alive with activity, tired and drawn out in the evenings, energetic and passionate in the dark, calm and collected in the day, it was like it lived a life in the same way everyone else did. This city lived because of the people who existed in its buildings, walked its pathways and drove its roads, and John was just another story that kept London's heart beating.

**...**

**...**

_**To Be Continued...**_

**I was going to make this chapter longer but I felt like being evil :P**


	4. Chapter 4

**This is part of the Re-write I'm doing of this fic overall (but I don't think I've changed anything until Chapter Four... hmm, I don't know for sure... I'll have to check.)**

**Anyway, enjoy and I hope you like it**

**Kasey**

**CHAPTER THREE**

**A NEW PLAN AND REPERCUSSIONS

* * *

**

"_**There is nothing wrong with going to bed with someone of your own sex. People should be very free with sex, they should draw the line at goats." - **_**Elton John

* * *

**

He had it planned, all planned out, he knew his brother; knew every weakness, every strength and he was going to use everything he had to get what he wanted. He'd watched and he'd waited; silent and patient like a spider observing its prey about to become ensnared in its custom-made web of silken poison, until it was the right time for him to step in and have what he'd so patiently worked to acquire. And if he'd known that all it would have took was for him to send a text to his brother asking for assistance he'd have done it _weeks_ ago!

Nodding at the driver who was looking at him in affirmation, he felt the car pull away from the kerb and glide along the bridge, pulling up when they reached the point where a lone figure was leaning on the wall looking down into the dark and murky depths of the River Thames. Quickly vacating the car, he stepped out into the chilly night air and briskly moved over towards the stationary figure which neither acknowledged his presence nor the fact that he was leaning further and further over the wall in his drunken stupor.

"It's quite cold tonight; perhaps you should be home sleeping doctor?" Mycroft said in his usual intonation, he thought it would be pointless for him to scare the already flighty-looking doctor; mostly because he was more worried about the fact that he was inclined to think that John would fall into the Thames in a failed attempt to get away from Mycroft.

The drunken figure of John Watson startled slightly and looked across at Mycroft, who was leaning on the wall, and gave him a lop-sided smile which even in a drunken stupor made Mycroft want to reach out and just take him, " he'lo Mycr'ft, wha' you doin' 'ere?"

Mycroft didn't sigh, he didn't shake his head in sadness, and he most definitely did not shake in anger at what his brother had driven John to; namely because he too was at fault for this and so felt guilty. Guilty? He felt guilty, he felt regretful and it gave him cause for pause because he had to analyse, he had to understand why this man was eliciting such feelings in him that no-one, no-one had ever managed to draw from him. He had always believed that drawing blood from a stone would be easier than making him feel in such a manner as this, to care about another's welfare beyond the necessary ties of blood and family, but this man had done the unpredictable, had surprised him and it made him both feel elated and wary at the same time.

"Why are you out here John?" Mycroft asked softly, swiftly side-stepping the doctor's question, he looked down at the man who'd captured the heart of not one but two sociopaths, because Mycroft knew that he was as much a sociopath has his younger sibling but he was far better at staying in character and for far longer.

John's only answer was a shrug before he turned away and looked down the river, taking in the blurred, blurred to him at least, view of London City in the dead of night; he found that it was echoing something inside of him, something he couldn't find nor define and he didn't have the sufficient control of his body or mind to contemplate it for long because of how completely and utterly bladdered he actually was. It was almost magical the sight of the tar-black water flowing beneath his feet out as the tide lowered and gravitational pull of the moon affected the sands of the river banks and the larger oceans of the earth; that had always been hard for him to believe when he'd been younger, that it was the moon that controlled the tides but as he'd grown older and researched the fact he realised that it was infact entirely true and it amazed him because it was such a fascinating and powerful feat that he couldn't not believe that his life was insignificant when compared to the moon and her wily graces.

"Come now John, it's rather cold and I do believe you may catch a chill being out here any longer," Mycroft said decisively, almost as though he was scolding the doctor, and without any further preamble Mycroft turned around and walked back over to his car and climbed in, leaving the door open so that John could join him; if he chose to do so of course.

He refused to think over the possibility that John would decline and remain on the bridge well into the morning because he wanted to believe that his terrifying intelligence was at its sharpest and most worthy, but deep down he just didn't want to think that even drunk and free of inhabitation that John Watson didn't want to be around him for longer than was necessary. It did worry him, correction it terrified him that a single dull person could make him feel like this and behave in this manner; as though he were young and inexperienced again. But somehow, though he didn't like it, it felt right that it was John making him feel like this; he highly doubted he'd have been anywhere as calm if it had been someone else such as not-Anthea making him feel anything like this.

His worrying and insecurity though seemed to have no place in the moment since John had obviously decided that getting in the car would be in his best interests and had according climbed into the car, or a more accurate term would be fell in, and slammed the door shut with a tremor-free hand. The drunken doctor looked at Mycroft and said, his words still slurred but Mycroft could hear the distinctive militaristic tinge to it, "I don't wanna go back home t'night... don't wanna see Sherl'ck."

The manner in which John said those words told Mycroft that his plan had worked perfectly, that everything he had done was justifying the fact that he was smarter than Sherlock because he would never lose his temper with this man because John was just too special to lose because of a few rash and thoughtless words spoken in the heat of anger. Mycroft nodded and said smoothly, "of course John, perhaps it would be better if you stayed the night at my home; it is not far?" he raised an eyebrow in quiet questioning and made sure that his words sounded polite and slightly unsure, as though he was expecting John to decline the offer but of course he knew John would say yes, he knew John would acquiesce in his current intoxicated state and so waited in silence for the admittedly alcohol-inhibited thought-process of the doctor to process his suggestion and respond accordingly.

"Alright then," was all John said after a good while and Mycroft made a mental note to never try to hold a conversation with the doctor when he was drunk as he realised that the man couldn't really focus on anything, but that also made him wonder about the actual amount of alcohol the man had consumed in one night. He decided that he would find out so that the next time this occurred he could gauge the reaction of a relatively sober John compared to the obviously plastered John who was staring in fascination at the streetlights flashing by through the tinted window.

It took them a little over half-an-hour to reach Mycroft's home, his mansion, and he silently got out and hovered next to the car door as John managed to haul himself out of the car and promptly nearly collapsed on the gravel driveway, the only thing that saved him from a painful meeting with the gravel was Mycroft who had immediately reached out and gripped John's arms in a firm but gentle grip. He didn't notice that Mycroft had somehow kicked the car door shut and that the car was now pulling away back down the drive, he didn't notice the fact that it was cold and dark, the only thing he noticed was Mycroft and how tantalisingly close the taller man now was to him.

John's incredibly intoxicated mind seemed to be trying to tell him something, something important but John's body was behaving upon its own accord and as a man of action who had learnt to react to instinct rather than thought in the midst of a war, John firmly ignored his mind and listened to his body which was relaxing and leaning in closer to Mycroft's own. He felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the alcohol still surging throughout his system and that warmth only grew when Mycroft pressed against him and he moaned at the contact of the man as he felt something that was obviously hard pressing into his upper thigh.

Mycroft's grip upon his arms tightened slightly, in lust or weariness John didn't know but he didn't care because right now all he wanted to do was feel the man not contemplate the many and varied aspects of Mycroft Holmes. It was almost a unanimous decision on his part, his entire body working in unison, when he tilted his head up and captured Mycroft's lips in an almost desperate and heated kiss which he found was more than reciprocated by the imposing figure gripping him so tightly that some part of his still functioning mind whispered to him that there would be bruises as a result, but it just made him moan louder and Mycroft growled in agreement with John's fevered moan. Their kiss was so passionate, so filled with wanton desire and intoxicated lust that it was a battle between them when they both began to fight for dominance over the kiss; Mycroft's tongue battled with John's and deftly wound its way around John's own but John wouldn't be outdone by the taller man and somehow managed to gain control of the kiss, his tongue diving into Mycroft's mouth and making its presence known on every tooth and gum and Mycroft groaned loudly and John swallowed up the moans and groans they were both making until they had to break for air.

Their heavy, laboured breaths were the only things they could hear along with the beating of their respective hearts, and they stared at one another in silence until Mycroft's grip on John changed; his hands sliding down John's arms to grasp his wrists and drag him into the mansion and up to Mycroft's master-bedroom. John had but a moment to actually take in the sheer size of the room along with its decor before he was being shoved onto the bed and pinned by the man who was now taking command of their situation; and John's whole body became alive in a single moment as every nerve exploded and every synapse screamed out in pleasure as Mycroft began his power-play of John Watson.

**...**

**...**

Birds sang in the trees just outside the window and John grumbled in annoyance as those feathered fiends tweeted and chirped so as to inform in what the already shining sun was obviously failing to do; it was morning and he was lying in his bed with a killer hangover. No, wait. His bed wasn't this soft, his bed didn't have silk and satin sheets, his bedroom didn't have tree outside it, his bedroom didn't have more than one window and his bedroom definitely didn't have mahogany furniture that just shouted at you that you were somewhere expensive.

And it all came back to him, fractured and blurred memories of the night before and it woke his sleepy and inattentive mind so suddenly that he thought he may end up with whiplash as his head jerked up and his eyes shot open. He rolled around onto his back and levered himself up onto his elbows giving him a clear view of the entire room, which was empty save for himself and his clothing which looked to have been washed, dried and pressed before being placed on a hanger. It made him want to shiver and he lifted the covers to check that-

Yes, he was indeed completely free of clothing and the only thing that was hiding his modesty was the silken sheet pooled at his waist. Shivering as he became aware of the slight chilliness of the air in the room he quickly gathered the sheet around himself and slipped off the bed, padding over to his clothes and that was when he froze for the second time since he'd woke. He looked down at himself and realised that he was covered in... oh God...

_He couldn't help himself, it felt so good, so freeing and he gripped the bicep of the arm closest to him tightly as he tried to stave off the inevitable. Oh God it felt so good, and this was heaven to him. The lips covering his own were passionate and the sounds they were both making were so erotic and sexual that he couldn't help himself; he cried out into the kiss, his hands curling tightly around whatever they were gripping whether it was material or flesh and he came, his entire body spasming so dramatically that he heard a response to his own cry which he swallowed as Mycroft came inside of him._

His legs felt like they couldn't support his weight anymore and it took every fibre of his being for John to grab his clothes and dash off towards the open door near to him which was to an en suite bathroom. He closed the door, desperately but quietly, and leaned against the door breathing hard. How had he? Why had he? What had he done?

He groaned in self-loathing and guilt as he hung his clothes on the back of the door and forced himself over to the shower cubicle, he turned the taps on, discarded the sheet at his feet and climbed underneath the beautifully hot spray. Placing his hands on the wall either side of himself he leaned forward resting his forehead against the cool tiles and letting the hot spray hit his back; closing his eyes he tried to think back to before that had happened, he tried to find the reason why and it eluded him as he remained there unmoving.

It was only when the water began to cool and John's mind was moving at its usual speed and not throwing up random snippets of the night before that he managed to turn the shower off and climb out. He dried himself off with what looked to be an Egyptian-cotton towel before dressing and gathering up the sheet which he automatically folded up, he was ex-military afterall, and he slowly opened the bathroom door into the bedroom. He peered out and was both relived and worried when he saw no-one waiting for him, quickly he placed the sheet on the bed and slipped on his shoes which had been neatly placed next to what looked to be an ornate writing desk circa the 1800s.

Once his shoes were on John took a breath and opened the door that he guessed led to the rest of the house he was in, and he wasn't disappointed as he stepped out silently into a long hallway that was sparse and plain compared to the bedroom he's just left. Looking to his left the only thing John saw was a single large plate-glass window and a Ming vase on a table, so he looked to his right and had more look; at the end of the hallway was a large staircase which he walked down, his footfalls still silent even though he guessed there was no reason for him to be so quiet, so cautious. Upon reaching the bottom however he realised that his shoes would make an audible sound on the tiled floor and he sighed and decided to stop with the stealth tactics; the carpeted floor upstairs had been convenient but he couldn't be silent on tile and so he thought why bother.

After he took three steps in the direction of the doors which he just knew were the main front doors however a voice floated out of the open doors opposite the main front doors and John froze, "come now John, you can at least stay for breakfast."

Slowly, carefully, cautiously John turned around and stared at the seated figure of one Mycroft Holmes who was sat at a rather spectacular-looking table which was adorned with various delicacies and John noticed that the table had only been set for two; himself and Mycroft. He managed to smile tightly and said, "Well Sherlock'll be wondering where I am and I think he's waited long enough," and he noticed, somewhat confused but satisfied, that Mycroft winced minutely at the mention of his brother.

Mycroft's eyes locked with John's own and Mycroft said, his tone holding no space for argument, "Sherlock can wait a while longer John," and then the man smiled politely and the commanding tone was replaced with his usual polite request, "please, sit."

John knew that it was probably a bad idea, he knew that he should probably just tell Mycroft to buggar-off and leave, but he didn't know where he was and the only memories he had of the journey to Mycroft's home consisted of streetlights that were far too bright flashing past until they were replaced with darkness. And so, with the knowledge that this was a bad idea, John moved over to the table and sat down carefully in his allocated seat trying not to squirm at Mycroft's almost predatory smile.

* * *

_**To Be Continued...**_


	5. Chapter 5

**Well, since this fic is technically complete and I'm re-writing certain chapters of it because they're just completely wrong I hope you people will have read the original and have found it a good read (and I hope you find this one a good read too...)**

**The only reason I'm re-writing this is because I think that Sherlock and co went a bit OOC in my latest chapters (which I blame on sleep-deprivation). Anyway, I hope you people like it and will inform of your opinion.**

**Enjoy**

**Kasey**

**...**

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**LOVE CONQUERS ALL**

**...**

**...**

"_**One is easily fooled by that which one loves" -**___**Jean Baptiste Poquelin Moliere**

**...**

**...**

Sherlock paced up and down the length of the sitting room, trying to control his worry and his fear and his anger and self-loathing as Lestrade stood uselessly in the doorway to the flat looking at Sherlock like he was the one who needed help! John was probably in danger, he was probably hurt, he had probably been taken by one of their enemies and being tortured this very second! He was probably-

"Sherlock, you know we have to wait forty-eight hours until you can officially report John as missing," Lestrade cut into Sherlock's thoughts and the younger man stopped pacing long enough to pierce Lestrade with one of the most withering gazes that he had ever received. Lestrade sighed and held up a hand, "I know you're worried Sherlock and I am too but maybe he's gone to visit his sister-"

"Hardly, the last time John actually spoke to his sister was two months before he moved in when he was still recovering in hospital; he hasn't mentioned wanting to get in contact with his sister beyond the occasional phone call and e-mail. I also highly doubt that he would have spent the night at her home when she's recently broke up with her partner and is slipping back into old habits," Sherlock said decisively and Lestrade repressed the urge to physically stop the now pacing man.

"A friends then!" he said exasperated already and he'd only been in the room for just over five minutes. He was sure John Watson had friends other the Sherlock and it seemed that the detective knew this too since the response the man gave him sounded so uncertain and so human that it made Lestrade pause for a moment.

"No, not very close friends; I don't think he has any friend who he'd stay the night with, I don't think he does..." Sherlock tried to argue but there was now a growing feeling of anxiety in his chest, warring for space next to the anger, fear and self-loathing. He stopped pacing a stared at his hands not noticing how Lestrade frowned at him in concern, "There's only me... isn't there?"

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked tentatively taking a step closer to the now inert man, "Just how did this all come about? John leaving last night and not returning?" he already had a fair guess but he wanted to hear it from Sherlock's own mouth to confirm his suspicions because if this was just a verbal spat that Sherlock was over-reacting to then Lestrade could tell the man straight up that John would be back by noon at the latest; and it was only nine-forty-five now so there was plenty of time.

Sherlock blinked and looked at Lestrade almost as though the man had dared to encroach on a very sensitive topic, and Lestrade knew from his own experiences with significant others that he had to tread carefully or he might just end up nursing a bruised jaw by the time he left Baker Street; with Sherlock arrested for assaulting a police officer as well. Lestrade was sure the young man was going to respond with some sort of scathing comment about his lack of intelligence and such so he was surprised, gob-smacked actually, when Sherlock answered him in a small delicate voice, "I didn't mean it..."

Lestrade sighed and said, trying to make his words sound firm but not insensitive because he did understand verbal spats it was just there were other things he could be dealing with at this moment in time, "I'm sorry Sherlock but if this is just a tiff between you both then I can't get involved; there are other things I need to deal with, like murders," Sherlock glared at him and Lestrade took a hesitant step back towards the door but only because he needed to be on his way not because he was scared of getting sucker-punched, "I really am sorry Sherlock."

Turning around Lestrade made his way down the stairs to the front door of 221 b Baker Street and he was aware that Sherlock was standing on the landing in front of the stairs watching him leave, so he resisted the urge to sigh or look over his shoulder as he opened the door to come face-to-face with none other than John Watson who was staring at him holding his key in an outstretched hand. Behind the doctor was a tall, older man dressed in a suit that Lestrade guessed probably cost more than his annual salary and he also noticed that the man had a split lip which made his eyebrows raise in surprise, "Doctor Watson, nice to see you; I was just checking on Sherlock here, he was under the assumption that you'd been kidnapped."

John winced slightly at that and muttered darkly, "He wasn't far off the mark," before stepping back to let Lestrade past, bumping into the suited man behind him whose name Lestrade didn't know. As Lestrade left 221 b he noticed that John had almost dived through the door to get away from the well-dressed tall man and it did make him curious but it wasn't his business so he bid John a good-day and climbed into his police car, setting off for Scotland Yard.

**...**

**...**

Sherlock stood at the top of the staircase and stared in silence as John dived through the door and Mycroft, his bloody thieving bastard of a brother, stepped in behind his John. He was so happy to see John that he didn't really bother giving Mycroft more than a quick look before his attention focused entirely on the doctor who had froze on the first step of the stairs looking up at him. Neither of them spoke, they just stared at each other; Sherlock looking at John feeling happy that he was home, worried that he wasn't talking, guilty for what he'd said and angry that he'd stayed out all night and had brought Mycroft into their home. John was looking at Sherlock feeling guilty for what he'd done, shameful of the fact that he didn't entirely regret it, angry with himself for betraying Sherlock and happy that the younger man hadn't blown himself up in his absence.

Their stationary staring was broken though when Mycroft cleared his throat rather pointedly though you'd think that after what he'd done that he'd be trying to melt into the wood-work. Sherlock blinked and his attention was riveted from John and onto Mycroft in a heartbeat; he frowned as he took in the fact that Mycroft seemed to have a split-lip and from what he could see a slight discolouring around his right eye, like the beginnings of a black eye. How had that happened? Who had done that to Mycroft? He'd give them a commendation.

Oh... of course; he knew only one person, besides himself, who wouldn't be worried or intimidated by his brother and that one person was staring at him in mixed guilt, regret, worry and happiness. What had Mycroft done that had warranted his calm and collected doctor hitting him this side of Sunday? Maybe he had said something that John had found particularly offensive? No, John wouldn't deck someone merely because they insulted him; oh, maybe Mycroft said something about him, Sherlock and John hit him for it? That sounds a bit more plausible but Sherlock was more inclined to believe that Mycroft had tried to do something and John had given him what-for for trying. Was he right about that or was he wrong? He couldn't be completely wrong because the evidence was there, proof that John had a mean right hook.

"Perhaps I should leave?" Mycroft asked politely, drawing Sherlock's attention from his own internal ramblings, and he was about to tell him that that was an excellent idea only for John to swirl around and pierce Mycroft with such a deadly look that Sherlock was sure his brother almost withered; on the inside of course.

"No! You are not leaving," John said darkly, firmly, commandingly and Sherlock shivered at the tone of John's voice; never in all the time he'd known the man had he heard such a tone from him. A tone that bore no argument unless someone wanted to actually be shot, "You're going to wait right _here_ whilst I explain."

And that caught Sherlock's attention because those words had such an underlying tone to them that he registered the fact that John had turned on his heel and was now walking, marching, up the stairs until the man was literally a step down from him. He swiftly moved aside as he saw that John wasn't in the mood to wait for him to move and would have probably ploughed right through him. Mycroft took a deep breath and Sherlock noticed that his brother seemed to have paled somewhat which made him wonder as to what John was going to explain to him.

Leaving his brother in the downstairs hallway, completely sure that he wouldn't leave, Sherlock turned around and walked into the sitting area noticing that John was standing stock still and patiently; if you could call standing to attention in an obviously tense and angered stance patient. Sherlock made the momentary decision to shut the door and it closed with an impossibly loud snap.

Sherlock observed the way John was standing, facing him, but noticeably looking into the air above Sherlock's shoulder as opposed to his eyes; a common trait that soldiers tended to do when receiving orders and speaking to superiors. Sherlock didn't like it.

Correction; he hated it and it unnerved him in a way that a gun would never have been able to do.

John wasn't meant to be stoic, John wasn't meant to be cold, he wasn't meant to be visual anger and tension contained like a coiled spring just begging to break and fly off. He didn't speak and he didn't blink as Sherlock moved over to stand directly in front of him and stare at him intensely. Sherlock tilted his head to the side as his invasive gaze swept up and down John's face taking in the contours and the weathered skin that seemed tauter and more worn that it had looked just a day ago.

"John?" Sherlock finally asked, his velvet baritone voice whispering around the room softly and gently but it held within it so many feelings, so many questions that if John had been his usual self then he might have caved in and blabbed everything; tears and self-pity included. But John was feeling a far amount of residual anger towards Mycroft that seemed to grant him the ability to remain resolute and controlled even when Sherlock placed a tentative hand on his arm, "John, what's wrong?"

In all his years in military service John Watson had never been one to ignore an order or a question from a superior and though Sherlock was not military, nor his actual superior in any sense, John still looked up to him; literally and metaphorically speaking. Sherlock was like a God compared to a mortal. He was the sun compared to the moon; though Sherlock might not understand that reference because he didn't even know the Earth orbited the bloody sun. If anyone else had asked him John doubted he would have answered but Sherlock wasn't anyone else and John was a man who had been taught to answer and follow orders. As a result of this John finally answered the taller man who was looking at him with quiet hesitance which surprised John more than anything else because in all the time he'd known Sherlock the man had never been quiet; not even when he slept.

"Sherlock," John swallowed thickly, his eyes finally locking with Sherlock's and he saw within the darker blue orbs a swirling mass of indecision, fear, worry, and guilt; but the one thing Sherlock didn't know was what the cause of those feelings were, "I... I'm... so sorry..."

John looked away and shook his head sadly before looking to his far right, avoiding Sherlock's gaze, avoiding Sherlock and that was when Sherlock finally had an answer as to the cause of this... confrontation between them. There, on John's neck, barely noticeable because of the thick jumper the shorter man was wearing, was a love bite that looked fresh and recent and-

No.

Not possible.

This was John.

John Watson.

It... wasn't entirely unexpected.

"How many times?" Sherlock asked quietly, softly, not allowing the hurt he was feeling, the shock nor the anger from showing through; he became closed off, cold and analytical because cold, hard facts couldn't hurt him. He couldn't believe this, he didn't want to, but the facts and clues were there for him to see as plain as day is to the everyday man. The lack of eye contact, the guilt, the mark, the discomfort John was feeling and hiding expertly.

John's gaze snapped on his face and Sherlock could read the shock, the guilt, the self-loathing so obviously that it was like the universe was pointing out these things just to spite him. John blinked and shook his head minutely, his voice when he spoke was soft and held within it shock and surprise along with the obvious guilt, "Only once Sherlock... it was only once..."

Sherlock couldn't handle this like other people, he wasn't other people; he was him, Sherlock Holmes. The sociopath. The freak. The one who didn't have relationships because he couldn't handle them. He couldn't just be Sherlock the boyfriend of John because if he was just that then no-one would listen, no-one would care; John would leave and he'd be alone so he did the only thing that Sherlock knew how to do. He played the facts and laid it out for all to see as though technicolour had suddenly flooded the populace's senses. In essence he became cold and distant, but the pain he felt was there, it was real and damn-near tangible and only revealed as he spoke.

"Only once..." Sherlock echoed John's words mockingly, bitterly and John winced as Sherlock glared at him like he was an enemy, "I suppose even an idiot makes a mistake at least once and we all know you're an idiot don't we John?" Sherlock snarled as he took a menacing step forward causing John to automatically step back.

"It's not like you're that useful really is it? You're a washed-up, injured soldier who can't play doctor because your hands shake if you're not getting shot at. What use are you really?" Sherlock's voice was as cold and bitter as it had ever been and the words hurt, they hurt so much that John wanted to hide, he wanted to take back the night before and to change things. Sherlock took another step towards him and John once again automatically stepped back until his back hit the floral-decorated wall.

Looking up into Sherlock's eyes John could see how hurt Sherlock was, he could tell that the man was angry, that the man was feeling raw and was breaking somewhere inside of that armour he wore. It made him hate himself and he couldn't even find it within himself to argue back, to defend himself against the now-raging young man. John knew that Sherlock wasn't good at relationships, that he often got things wrong with them, that he needed guidance with them but he wouldn't ask so John also knew somewhere inside that Sherlock was trying to react like he would if Donovan threw a particularly nasty insult at him but Sherlock was hurting too much to control himself and each word was like a spear, a burning hot spear to John's battered and weighed-down heart.

"You've said it yourself John, I'm not like everyone else so I guess that means you think you can go fuck whoever you want whenever you want right?" Sherlock's voice dropped dangerously low and John felt cornered, he felt afraid because he didn't have it in him anymore to fight against Sherlock due to his intense guilt. But self-preservation is a damned-hard thing to ignore and instinct had been John's friend and companion since he'd been young.

With a strength that few knew he possessed John shoved Sherlock hard in the solar plexus, winding the taller man as he was shoved back by the force of the blow, and John slipped away from the winded man and towards the door. He felt bad for his reaction but he felt worse for how Sherlock was behaving because of something he'd done, "Sherlock... I'm sorry... I never meant for it to happen... I was drunk and Mycroft was there... it... it wasn't my fault..."

Weary of Sherlock John didn't go near the detective as he finally managed to breath properly again and pierced John with a look that was so... painful to see that John wished to scratch out his eyes, to throw himself off a bridge, to be hung-drawn-and-quartered, and burned at the stake just to avoid seeing something he'd never expected to see on Sherlock's face. It made him feel physically sick to know he was to blame, to know he was as bad as any bastard who cheated on a spouse; drink wasn't an excuse, he chose, he ignored his mind and gave in to temptation, he was an unfaithful bastard and he should be shot. He should be hung for hurting such a brilliant man such as Sherlock Holmes.

Feeling the world breaking, the air shattering, his atoms and bonds between molecules dispersing John slid bonelessly down the wall he'd been standing next to ending up on the floor in a pathetic heap. He curled himself up and rocked himself constantly, unconsciously as he whispered over and over, "I'm sorry... so sorry... I'm sorry... so sorry... my fault... my fault... I'm sorry... so sorry... I'm sorry... so sorry... my fault... my fault..."

Sherlock watched with mixed feelings; he was angry and hurt over what John had done but he was also worried and afraid because of how John was acting. He had always assumed that the one who was cheated on was supposed to have this sort of reaction but John was falling apart at the seams, being pulled apart by guilt and self-hatred which made some part of Sherlock feel bad for how he himself had reacted. He knew John, he knew that he wouldn't cheat on Sherlock; he was just too loyal for that. He knew that Mycroft was a sneaky, two-faced bastard; he knew that John wouldn't have been able to say no in any state most especially if he was inebriated. He knew that he was to blame for what had happened to some degree; his behaviour had driven John away, he had driven John to the same refuge others sort in drink, he had driven John from his own arms and straight into his brothers.

Sherlock acted upon instinct; something so unusual and foreign to him that he was confused by his sudden and uncontrollable urge to comfort John. He swiftly moved across the room and knelt down next to the curled up ball of humanity that was killing itself slowly with guilt and wrapped a long, thin arm around the minutely shaking shoulders. He pulled John towards him as he moved so he could sit down on the carpet beneath them and he held John, murmuring softly words of nonsense because it just felt like the right thing to do to comfort the breaking man. He had never known John to cry, not once in all the time had he ever seen or heard the ex-soldier cry over anything; get angry and upset yes, be cold and withdrawn also yes, but crying was new. Crying was unexpected. Crying was... natural for someone who felt genuine guilt.

John upon natural-reflex unfurled himself and buried his head into Sherlock's sharply-angled shoulder as hot, salty tears rolled down his cheeks and Sherlock wondered whether or not they were emotion-based tears or simply reflex-based tears. If he had a chromatograph at his disposal then he could take a sample of John's tears to determine the chemical make-up so as to discern which of the two categories his tears fell into; not that he had any real need since John was still muttering his apologies in an almost shell-shocked manner and that made Sherlock focus on John as a person rather than the physical symptoms the man was exhibiting.

"Shhh... it's okay..." Sherlock cooed as he began to steadily rock John back and forth as he ran his hand along John's back in a faintly calming and reassuring gesture, "I know... it's okay... shhh..."

It wasn't really okay for them and Sherlock doubted neither he nor John could forget what had happened last night or today, but Sherlock also knew that they could get past it because Sherlock l-loved John and John loved Sherlock. The only problem for them was Mycroft; Sherlock knew his brother would want John again, oh he might feel bad about this now. He might feel like he's betrayed John, which Mycroft most definitely had. He might feel like he's unfairly taken advantage of John, which he most certainly had and Sherlock would be having words with his brother for that in particular. But Sherlock knew that once things had calmed down between John and himself Mycroft would come, creeping and sneaking until he had John alone; trapped and alone with Mycroft. Because his brother just couldn't resist something, someone as intriguing as John. Sherlock couldn't.

**...**

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_**To Be Continued...**_


	6. Chapter 6

**Like I said in the last chapter; re-write of this blasted story so as to get the characters more in line with the actual ones we all got to see on tele :D**

**Hope it's alright and I hope you like it (and if you're one of those people who gives feedback then by all means give it! It makes me a better writer if I listen to my readers and keep in line with my characters doesn't it? Lol)**

**Enjoy**

**Kasey**

**...**

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**CRY FORGIVENESS FOR ME**

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_**"The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong." -**___**Mahatma Gandhi quotes (Indian Philosopher, 1869-1948).**

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**...**

Downstairs in the hallway Mycroft listened to the soft sounds of sobbing as he stood silently debating internally whether or not to ascend the stairs or to leave and not come back for a good while. Though the latter of the two options seemed like the most logical and sensible idea Mycroft chose the former as he swiftly and silently ascended the stairs stopping outside the closed door to the sitting room. The sound of sobbing was louder now, though not by much he had to admit, and he was sure he could hear the soft words of someone whispering soothingly; his curiosity was peaked and he wanted nothing more than to open the door and see who was crying and who was consoling. He assumed that John was trying to console Sherlock who Mycroft knew had no prior knowledge of how a relationship was supposed to work, so such a thing as cheating from one such as John would be devastating for Sherlock.

Mycroft made up his mind as he gripped the door handle and twisted it, opening the door slowly and cautiously to reveal a sight he had not been expecting. Sherlock was whispering to John still but his younger brother was staring at Mycroft with a dark and deadly look that would have made any one else shrivel up into nothingness but it only made Mycroft make a mental-note to avoid Baker Street and his brother for quite some time after this. Though he knew his brother wanted to shout at him, rave at him, and probably hit him to, Mycroft was surprised that Sherlock gave him a cursory once over still piercing him with that glare of his before returning his attention to the man in his arms.

It was quite unusual and Mycroft briefly wondered who this imposter was the Sherlock he knew, his brother Sherlock, had never been so dismissive of Mycroft when he was incensed; in fact Sherlock was usually quite the opposite being openly hostile and, on occasion, turning violent towards him. Those times had often hurt Mycroft because he remembered his brother when he'd been younger. When he'd been kinder and less acerbic than he was now after life had been anything but kind to him.

It seemed like an age before John ceased in his tears but Sherlock still continued to murmur softly to him and held him in his protective embrace until John's frame stopped shaking and the doctor raised his head from Sherlock's shoulder and looked at the detective with bright and watery eyes. Sherlock smiled slightly and said softly, "If you're wondering John then yes; I forgive you and for what it's worth I'm sorry for my behaviour yesterday. I shouldn't have said such things to you; it is as simple as that," Sherlock finished, his voice soft but firm and John found that he could not argue with Sherlock Holmes; mostly because he knew that he wouldn't win so he just went with the flow.

And incidentally the flow seemed to lessen the pain he felt, the guilt that drowned him and the constraints on his heart seemed to snap and fall away allowing his heart to feel more than guilt and self-loathing; he felt love and admiration for the man holding him, he felt awe and joy that Sherlock had forgiven him so soon and he felt a healthy dose of fear of betraying Sherlock's trust in his ever again. Just as John was about to speak and promise Sherlock that he would do his best to never betray or leave him Mycroft cleared his throat rather pointedly drawing both Sherlock and John's attention to him.

It happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly that Sherlock wasn't expecting it and so was unceremoniously pushed aside as John sprung up from the floor and slammed into Mycroft with enough force to break a dam. Mycroft let out a sort of surprised and indignant squawk as his back hit the solid wall and he felt John's hand fist themselves in Mycroft's suit-jacket's lapels so tightly that he was glad it was the lapels John was gripping and not his throat. It brought back memories of earlier in the morning during breakfast.

"_I don't care Mycroft! You seduced me!" John exclaimed in indignant anger, "of all the things! You... oh God... you're so fucked up!"_

_Mycroft for the most part simply stared at John, his eyes unintelligible and his face impassive, as John tried to find a way to justify, to come to terms with what had happened between them. Though Mycroft understood the fact that he shouldn't have done what he did he didn't entirely regret it because he'd wanted it so much... but that was of little importance when John suddenly, decisively sprang out of his seat and gripped Mycroft's suit-jacket lapels and hauled him up in an amazing show of strength. _

_Mycroft managed to make a rather surprised squawk before he found himself slammed against the wall directly behind him and John's forearm cutting off his airway; though the man was short Mycroft had to commend him for being able to manhandle someone over a head taller than him. It bespoke of the specialist training John had had when he'd been younger, "This is your fault..." John said darkly, there was anger plain to see in his eyes but there was so much more in there; there was pain and hatred and self-loathing, and Mycroft was stunned to realise that John hated himself for his lapse in judgement. It was so... unusual that that more so than the arm pressing across his throat was what caused him to quickly acquiesce to John's demands to inform Sherlock and to never do it again._

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed as he jumped to his feet and dashed over to where John was pinning Mycroft against the wall. Sherlock couldn't really believe it; he'd always known that John was strong and that he could easily kill a man with his bare hands but he'd never really expected anyone to manhandle Mycroft and pin them to a wall in a fit of calm-impulsive rage. And such a sight was made all the more surreal due to the fact that John was the one manhandling Mycroft; something Sherlock doubted anyone would ever expect John to do to someone who had as much power and control as Mycroft did. Though that being said, it wasn't like John hadn't manhandled Sherlock once or twice; though those times had been for his own safety.

Mycroft looked into John's enraged gaze which contained so much that it hurt to stare back but he wouldn't break eye-contact; no, he liked breathing and living far too much to do something as foolish as to look away from a man who knew how to kill him with a thumb. It was surprising for Mycroft because he'd actually expected his brother to be the one to attack him not John and he'd also expected to see his brother broken and crying feeling betrayed; but it seemed that he was on a roll of being wrong today. Mycroft could recall a time when he had been trying to help Sherlock catch butterflies in the rose garden when they'd been younger; it had been fun and long before their sibling rivalry had made them into enemies of sorts. It had been good and it was fond memory of Mycroft's because he and his brother had shared the time, shared the experience instead of one taking it and hiding it away from the other as they seemed to do so often nowadays.

"_Mycroft..." a small and soft voice whispered into the room Mycroft had deemed his own; though technically it was the grandfather's old study but their grandfather was dead and no-one had argued when Mycroft had declared the space as his._

_Looking up from the 16__th__ century manuscript he was reading purely because he was bored, Mycroft saw his brother, his younger and much more naive brother, poking his head through the door looking nervously at his big brother, "Yes Sherlock." _

_Sherlock fidgeted slightly and pulled on the one single bangle of his dark hair that had always refused to be confined by the hairstyle imposed upon it by their mother. Mycroft waited for his brother to speak for he had quickly learnt that Sherlock, when he wanted something important, would ask when he wanted to not when asked or told. And he wasn't disappointed this time around as Sherlock asked, his voice quiet and his eyes scanning the books, looking anywhere but at Mycroft, "Can... can you help me?"_

_Mycroft sighed theatrically but secretly he was glad that he brother had asked him for help as opposed to him trying to continue whatever it was he was doing and damaged being done. So with slow and dramatic gestures Mycroft rose from the plush leather armchair he had been seated in, closed the manuscript and left it on the seat for when he returned before following his now flamboyant brother out into the rose garden where he immediately deduced what his brother had been trying to do._

"_Didn't mummy tell you that you're not meant to chase the butterflies Sherlock?" Mycroft scolded lightly because it was expected of him as he was the older sibling and therefore more mature and responsible, but he quite liked butterfly chasing and hadn't done it since he had been... well Sherlock's age actually._

"_I just want to look at them, not hurt them," Sherlock defended himself giving Mycroft his patented wide-eyed, angelic look that worked on everyone; Mycroft included. It had always amazed him how his brother could look so innocent, especially after he'd played a rather nasty prank on him; like accidentally melting his favourite Egyptian-cotton shirt which had been a gift from a rather splendid girl he'd first met when his father had taken him to the Houses of Parliament._

"_You have to let them go, you can't keep them and you can't let mummy find out I helped you understand?" Mycroft said firmly, quietly and Sherlock nodded enthusiastically as Mycroft sighed and picked up one of the nets; looks like his brother had been expecting him to agree to this all along, and tutted lightly, "Sherlock you haven't extended the handles; it's no surprise that you haven't caught any of them."_

_Sherlock glared at Mycroft and said, "I couldn't hold it up long enough," and he scowled at the net as though it were personally responsible for Sherlock's short-stature. Mycroft smiled at his brother and chuckled lightly as Sherlock turned his scowl on him, "It's not funny; I'll be taller than you one day."_

"_I'm sure you will Sherlock, I'm sure you will," Mycroft agreed absently as he fiddled with the catch on the handle and extended it out, "here; be careful encase you catch mummy's plants. You know how much she loves them."_

"Doctor Watson, I would suggest you relinquish your hold on me please; it is very rude of you," Mycroft said carefully as he raised an eyebrow at the seething man pinning him who looked for all the world like he was about to murder Mycroft then and there.

There was a sort of cold and distant tinge to the doctor's gaze as John spoke, his voice soft and dark which was a direct contrast to the obvious anger that was obvious in the man's stance and the tensed muscles throughout his entire body, "And it was rude of you to take advantage of someone who was under the influence."

Sherlock, who had been standing next to John, shivered slightly as he recalled a saying that someone he had known years ago had often said to him; "dark madness has no better mask than that of soft politeness from a fractured mind." It was John's voice more than anything else that made Sherlock recall this and he decided to intervene before anything happened that would be beyond his control; like John lynching Mycroft and dismembering him.

"John... let Mycroft go..." Sherlock said quietly as he placed a gentle hand on one of John's balled up fists, "let him go John," he reaffirmed, his voice sterner and John slowly, reluctantly released his grip on Mycroft's lapels and allowed the taller man to move away towards the still open door.

Mycroft straightened his suit and looked at John and Sherlock as his fixed his tie. He took in the fact that Sherlock had a hand on John's shoulder and he wondered whether it was to restrain or reassure John; though he guessed the former what with the way John's hands were curled into fists and his hands were as steady as a rock. It reminded Mycroft of the fact that John really, really wanted to do some damage to him for what had occurred and so he thought it prudent of him to be on his way.

"Just go, go," John said suddenly, his voice low and sounding tired, resigned as he glared at Mycroft, "you've done more than enough," and Mycroft was sure that Sherlock's hand on John's shoulder tightened slightly but he couldn't be positive as to the reason why; though he was sure it had something to do with what he had done to John.

Mycroft nodded in silent acquiescence to John's demand and stepped out of the sitting area out onto the landing where he paused and looked back at the open door where John and Sherlock now stood in front of, both of them having moved to watch Mycroft leave. He swallowed and said, his voice polite and respectful, "I apologise Doctor Watson. I will be on my way and shalt bother you with this again."

And then, before Sherlock nor John could speak, Mycroft swiftly turned on his heel and strode down the stairs and through the door of 221 b Baker Street, climbing into the parked Mercedes waiting for him and he didn't look back as the car pulled away and drove off along the road. He didn't think about all the things he could have done with John. And he defiantly didn't think about the void in his heart that he hadn't even known existed until he'd met John.

**...**

**...**

Back in 221 b Baker Street Sherlock and John looked at each other and there was a sort of unspoken agreement to ignore the world for the rest of the day; the mobiles were switched off, the laptop disconnected and shut down, the television unplugged, and the little radio in the kitchen was swiftly taken apart by Sherlock before the pair retreated to John's room due to the fact that there was an amalgamation of crap on Sherlock's bed which they both refused to move.

They both snuggled up on John's bed, drawing the quilt up around them as they entwined themselves and held one another; their embrace telling the world that which they did not speak of, showing how much the cared and depended on one another now. Their lives before they'd met had been resolutely empty and neither could handle living without the other; the world was bright and colourful when they were together and they didn't want to go back to the dull monotone shade that had been painted upon everything they'd done before they'd met. They didn't want to lose each other and so they both resolutely refused, both completely ignored the idea of one of them leaving the other; they wouldn't die and they wouldn't leave because they were perfect. Absolutely perfect.

**...**

**...**

_**To Be Continued...**_


	7. Chapter 7

**Well, I'm most definitely getting into re-writing this entire fic now aren't I (which is bad actually since it's like 4:30 AM :/) **

**I think I should be getting to beddies now shouldn't I hmm... **

**Anyway, once again just tell me what you think and such.**

**Enjoy**

**Kasey**

**...**

**CHAPTER SIX**

**OF COPPERS AND QUERIES**

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"_**And my dreams, they aren't as empty, As my conscience seems to be." –**_** Behind Blue Eyes (Limp Bizkit)**

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**...**

Banging on the door to 221 b Baker Street Lestrade felt like shouting up to the obviously open window and telling Sherlock to get his skinny, sociopathic arse down here now because he needed his help. He was tired, anger, frustrated and not just because of the case he was working on but also because neither Sherlock nor John had been seen or heard from for the last three days and it worried him. The surgery where John worked had received a call in the early hours of the morning two days ago in which John had simply stated that he was dealing with family problems and couldn't come into work for a few days. And that would have been fine but Lestrade had listened to it when he'd checked the surgery looking for one of the occupants of Baker Street and he'd heard the sounds of things smashing faintly in the background.

Of course, that had been just before he'd got this latest case he was working on and he hadn't had a chance until now to check up on the two men; and now he truly was starting to panic because he could see Mrs Hudson ambling along the street towards him carrying three shopping bags. Deciding to help the woman so he could get into the flat, Lestrade hurried over to Mrs Hudson and asked, "do you need any help Mrs Hudson?"

The woman was obviously shocked at his offer and it took her a moment to answer in the form of a polite smile and a simple, "that's very generous of you detective but I'm quite alright."

But Lestrade wasn't to be dissuaded because he insisted politely, flattering her and showering her with praise so when they reached 221 b she opened the door and offered him a cup of tea; although for some reason she had added onto her offer the words, "but I'm a landlady, not a housekeeper," before bustling off towards her own flat. Having seen his chance Lestrade quickly bounded up the stairs taking them two at a time and thrust open the door to Sherlock and John's flat to find that it looked like a miniature war had been waged; and he couldn't see any signs of any actual causalities.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade called out his voice reverberating around the empty room, "John?" and he frowned in confusion because there really should be someone in the sitting room at this time of day. Carefully side-stepping what looked to be melted gloop he moved throughout the room looking closely at certain things that told him certain things; like this hadn't been an accident, that this hadn't been some sort of argument, this had been something... dangerous. Damn it Sherlock!

He groaned as he picked up what looked to be a laptop but most of the keys on its keyboard had fallen off and the screen was cracked leaving a strange sort of ghosting shadow on the entire screen. He tapped a random button and was surprised when the screen lit up as well as it could with such obvious damage. He blinked and frowned at the half of an e-mail, or document or something, that he could see on the screen and he read it. Taking the words in slowly and carefully as each word sat heavy in his stomach and the worry he'd been feeling about Sherlock and John suddenly peaked and turned to fear.

He placed the laptop down on the desk and pulled out his mobile, immediately calling in a possible kidnapping and the fact that it also related to his latest case. He couldn't help but think though, as he surveyed the chaos of the room, that Sherlock deserved a bloody good smack right about now.

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**...**

This was the second time in as many weeks that John had felt the insatiable urge to hit something, someone, but it was kind of hard to do this time around since his hands had been tied behind his back with a strong, metal wire which kept cutting into his wrists everytime he moved. And everytime the person he was attached to moved as well. When he thought about it he guessed it could have been worse; he could have been taken and Sherlock wouldn't have known where he was, not that he'd care that much anymore since John was a cheating bastard and all; or he could have been out when it happened and then he wouldn't have known where Sherlock was and that would have been a hundred times worse than this. So in comparison the fact that he and Sherlock had initially started shouting and throwing things, though that had been Sherlock really, and after he'd called the surgery to tell them he wouldn't be in for a while; since he did have a cut lip and the most noticeable black eye on the planet, it had all somehow gone to hell.

_Standing in silence as Sherlock smashed another cup from the kitchen cupboard John felt like he wanted Sherlock to smash him, to break him and make him splinter into pieces. He waited it out, waited until Sherlock came to the mug John had bought for him before this whole mess had started and he waited for Sherlock to pick it up and study it for a long moment. He waited for Sherlock to throw it, to make it smash too.. Only... Sherlock didn't smash it._

_Though he might have done if he'd had the chance to since at the very moment that Sherlock looked up at John and caught his eye the door to the sitting area and the kitchen burst open and three burly men barged into the room. They had the element of surprise on their side but they'd never really come across a pair like Sherlock and John before so they weren't expecting it when John dove straight at the two who had come through the sitting room door, and they hadn't been expecting it when Sherlock had picked up a frying pan and walloped his opponent full-on in the face._

_It had been rather funny really, the sound of the frying pan coming into contact with the thugs face and then the sound of John roaring at the two he was currently rugby tackling to the ground. John was small, yes it was quite true, but he wasn't slight and he had more than enough incentive to knock those two down and ensure they never got up again. Whilst Sherlock continued to entertain himself playing his opponents head like it was an instrument John sucker-punched the one on his left before turning his attention to the other one; and it would have been nice, simple and over in a matter of seconds it another trio of goons turned up and one of them grabbed John from behind as the other two focused on Sherlock._

_Though, rather admirably, John managed to knock one of them out and break another's nose there were too many of them for him to fight at once and blow after blow rained down on him until a lucky fist hit him at just the right speed with just the right amount of force and knocked him clean out. Sherlock had followed rather miserably after that when one of the three he was dealing with managed to get him in a head lock and steadily cut off his air supply until he too succumbed to unconsciousness._

"Sherlock, could you stop moving," John whispered quietly knowing full-well that drawing attention to themselves was a very bad idea in their current predicament, "or you're going to slice my hands off."

And John was sure he felt Sherlock's back shake slightly, almost as though the man was snorting in silent amusement at that comment, "highly doubtful John, though I suppose it would get us out of here quicker."

"Oh? And how'd you figure that one out Sherlock?" John growled in annoyance at Sherlock's cavalier attitude and he wanted to really hit the man now when he felt Sherlock's back shake once again and this time he knew Sherlock was laughing at him.

"Because they want us alive so if you bled out too much you'd require medical assistance and they would have to give you that; but they'd have to untie us first," Sherlock said simply and though his voice was barely above a whisper there was still that trademark arrogance that made the majority of people want to hit the younger man. John included.

John was silent for a moment before he sighed and said, "oh... right well... that's... good," and he was sure Sherlock's back stiffened slightly and he wondered why until he heard the sound of footsteps and then he too stiffened though not in fear; he stiffened as he readied himself for what was to come because if he was honest, he'd been waiting for this to happen for the last two days.

"Let's hope we don't have to resort to that," Sherlock said softly as the door swung open and the repugnant looking interrogator stepped into the room and smiled widely at them, and it wasn't a nice smile; it was smile that told them of the world of pain one of them was about to endure and each of them was hoping that it was them because they didn't want to watch each other suffer.

"Well boys... down to business again," the interrogator said jovially as three others stepped into the room, one of them holding a semi-automatic pistol which wasn't for decoration, "I think the short one needs another session," he said as he began to set his things up humming a little melody to himself.

The two unarmed thugs moved over towards them and Sherlock struggled and shouted, "No! He's had three sessions! That's favouritism!" The two thugs however ignored his protests, as did the interrogator, and when he tried to hit the one who was closest to him the third one by the door aimed the pistol directly at his heart and Sherlock didn't struggle anymore as they retied his hands and shoved him against the wall.

He couldn't do anything but watch as they dragged John over to the interrogator who smiled at John and said, "same again today then?" and Sherlock wanted to scream and tell them to hurt him, to torture him because he couldn't watch them doing it to John anymore.

"I'm really pissing you off aren't I?" John asked as they threw him down into the chair that had been bolted down specifically for this sort of thing; which might have been of a morbid curiosity for Sherlock were it not John being restrained in said chair, "you hate the fact that I haven't caved and told you everything don't you?" and as they exchanged the wire for handcuffs Sherlock saw John smirk at the interrogator, "well give it your best shot mate... you're not that good an interrogator really... my cousin's better at torture than you are."

No... no, no, no! Sherlock wanted to shout at John, tell him to shut up and stop antagonising the stupid fool with the sharp, painful instruments; he wanted John to know that he didn't need to protect him from this, he wanted to kick and scream and shout until they listened to him. Until John listened to him because he couldn't bear to see John die here; he couldn't bear to see John ever because he needed John. Before he'd met John Sherlock had been broken, and he'd known it but hadn't cared; John had fixed him, he had done what others had failed to do with just a smile and a funny little chuckle, a declaration of 'brilliant!' and Sherlock was smitten. He couldn't lose him now. Not because this monster wanted to know everything that they'd found out thus far about the organisation they'd been tracing. He wasn't going to bury John and have a headstone that read 'death by wanna-be mafia'. No. Way.

John thought he was protecting Sherlock, John thought that getting the psychotic madman who had a penchant for sharp pointy objects to focus on him that Sherlock would be safe; but John didn't realise just how much Sherlock would have preferred the pain of the torture implements compared to this emotional pain. This was beyond unbearable but he couldn't stop them from hurting John so he couldn't stop from hurting. It was harder for him than anything could ever be because in protecting Sherlock John was breaking him in a way that Sherlock couldn't handle.

His heart was breaking at the sight of John's blood running free.

**...**

**...**

"Have we got any leads yet?" Lestrade demanded as he stormed into the case room in Scotland Yard, "they've been missing for nearly a week for Christ's sake!"

There was no reply to his question apart from shrugs and apologetic looks and it angered him further because Sherlock and John were missing, they'd been missing for an entire week and they'd been taken by the same people who'd killed those other six people. None of those six people had been kept for more than forty-eight hours and they'd all had signs of torture. And oh sweet Jesus!

"Who the hell are you?" Lestrade growled as he strode into his office to find a man sitting in the chair behind his desk fiddling with an umbrella. The man looked at him and a memory sparked in his mind and Lestrade frowned, "you're the guy I saw at Sherlock's when John turned up right?"

"Quite correct Detective Inspector, my name is Mycroft Holmes," Mycroft said smoothly, "I'm Sherlock's older brother," and Lestrade could see it too; the man had the same razor-sharp gaze that Sherlock had, the arrogant tone and his eyes just screamed that he was superior to everyone he met.

"Do you know your brother and his flat mate have been missing for the last week?" Lestrade said bluntly, not bothering with pleasantries as he was too far past the point of caring what this man thought of him; his job was getting harder and harder and two people he considered to be friends to him, though he used the term rather loosely for one of them, were missing.

"Ah, yes I do," Mycroft said as he stood up and moved out from behind the desk, "and I'm here because I know you have nothing to go on; I know this because I have been looking for my brother and John also. And I am telling you this because I wish for this to go through the correct channels and for the men responsible for what has been brought upon my brother and John to be put in away permanently."

Lestrade repressed the urge to shiver as Mycroft's voice grew deeper and darker, menace underlining every polite and grammatically correct word his smooth voice said. He frowned and said, "Where are they then?" he tried to stop the hopefulness from creeping into his voice but he failed somewhat, and he couldn't really care less because Mycroft picked up a file from his desk and passed it to him in one move.

"This file contains everything I have collected during my search; it includes the only possible location of where they are as well as detailed sheets on each and every member of this particular group who have probably had a hand in this little escapee. I trust that you will not waste any time Detective?" Mycroft said rather curtly and he stared at Lestrade intensely and Lestrade returned the gaze with the one he'd used on Sherlock many-a-time when the man was being excessively difficult during a case.

"Of course not," Lestrade said firmly and Mycroft nodded looking away from Lestrade for a moment before looking back at him and smiling. The smile seemed to be rather taught and tense, like it was being put on and it made Lestrade pause and wonder if this Holmes in particular was more attuned to feelings that he let on; and he guessed he was quite right in his assumption as he realised that the man had been distancing himself from Sherlock, calling him 'my brother' the entire time.

Mycroft left Lestrade's office and he stared after the man, watching him as he disappeared out of the case room before he took a breath and made his way out into the case room where he called for everyone's attention and told them that he had a possible lead on Sherlock and John's whereabouts.

**...**

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_**To Be Continued...**_


	8. Chapter 8

**The last chapter; enjoy my darlings and tell me what you think of it. :D**

**Now! I must go over pointless GCSE math crap so I can prepare for a little test in A-Level Maths... oh God... can't I just write more Sherlock? (oh I wish! :p)**

**Hope you've enjoyed this re-write people... I actually enjoyed writing it but now I'm going to officially go and hibernate for a year lol.**

**Enjoy**

**Kasey**

**...**

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

**LOVE IS TO YOU WHAT AIR IS TO ME... NORMALITY AND A FORMALITY**

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"_**An idea is salvation by imagination." - **_**Frank Lloyd Wright**

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The screams didn't bother Sherlock; they were the by-product of pain and the body's only natural way of expressing its intense discomfort at such overwhelming agony. The taunts didn't bother Sherlock; they were the psychological torture that went hand-in-hand with the physical pain. What did bother Sherlock was who was screaming, who was being taunted, who was being tortured... that's what bothered Sherlock.

He hated it, hated it so _so_ much and he wanted to scream, shout and kick and punch and even cry because he hated it so bloody much! But he could neither talk nor breathe properly because it seemed that his throat had closed up the moment the quiet whimpers which turned into eventual screams had robbed him of such things. He couldn't move for the blasted wire around his wrists and ankles; cutting and ripping and bleeding. In his mind though he was hurting them back; every hit, every cut, every drop of blood or tear was done unto them and it was enough to keep his mind sane. As sane as it could be for him at least.

But his mind, the world of logic that he had so often taken refuge in, couldn't stop him from wanting to call out his name, shout and beg for him, because he was human and he felt and he felt so much for him; too much he feared at times because he never knew who was going to use that against him. But he didn't care right now, oh like heck did he care about anyone and everyone else, he mattered to Sherlock; only him, no-one else. Just him. As always.

"All you need to do is say the word..." the inconsequential piece of homo Sapien filth whispered into John's ear, his voice deceptively soft but Sherlock heard him; he heard the maliciousness and the dark intoxication that the... man was experiencing playing with, torturing, his friend, his John... his lover.

But John couldn't focus on much, he couldn't focus on anything really; the pain was too intense, even for him, and somewhere in the back of his mind there was a miniature version of Sherlock, billowing coat-an-all, that was pointing out random little quirks about his interrogator and he felt compelled to inform the interrogator of a myriad of things just because he felt like it. One day he was going to have to stop following everything Sherlock said like it was gospel; including the miniature model in his head.

He blinked slowly, lethargically as the pain slowed him down, and looked up at the detestable little man leaning over him who was staring down at him with a smile that wasn't as natural and nice as the guy wanted it to look. John smiled slowly and deliberately, ignoring the additional pain that flared up in his face; he could just tell there were bruises starting to form and he thought that he had a split-lip judging from the coppery taste in his mouth. He took great pleasure in watching as the interrogator's face morphed into its usual twisted leer when John murmured, because really he just wasn't up to talking loudly because of all the screaming he'd been doing for the last two, or was it three, hours, "I've... got three... go fuck yourself..."

And maybe he really shouldn't listen to himself either because the macho-soldier part of him was all for pissing off the interrogator, but the intelligent-less-than-suicidal-doctor part of him was calling him every name under the sun for being such a fool. In hindsight the fist was something he should have seen coming but hey, he was barely hanging onto consciousness because of the pain he was already experiencing so he had a legit excuse, and he tasted fresh, hot blood in his mouth as his head snapped back with enough force to make him think he had whiplash for a good moment or two.

A hand was in his hair and the interrogator gripped his hair hard and yanked his head up so he had to look at the slimeball. The interrogator's other hand, the one that John had bitten during their first session, came to rest lightly on John's cheek and he just managed to stop himself from flinching as a thumb stroked his cheek lightly, almost absent-mindedly, as the interrogator's eyes betrayed some of what he was feeling; and that miniature model Sherlock in his head was not helping pointing out the dilation of the pupils and the quickening of the slimeball's breathes and other things that he resolutely avoided acknowledging.

Crap.

The interrogator licked his lips in much the same manner that John had done in Angelo's not long after he'd met Sherlock and it made his stomach, already a twisting mass of lactic acid, turn to solid stone.

Double crap.

"I think I'd much rather..." Mr-Slimeball said quietly, too quietly for Sherlock to hear clearly, "fuck you until you bleed..." and then he laughed; he laughed a dark, malicious laugh that somehow gave John the energy, the incentive, to suddenly yank his head out Mr-Slimeball's grasp in a futile gesture of his continued defiance and stubbornness.

The slimeball stopped laughing and scowled at John darkly and reached out with a violent grip to latch onto John's exposed throat and squeeze hard enough for John's vision to dim, and he would have gone further were it not for the sounds of shouting and the distinctive sound of gunshots from rifles and handguns from nearby. Mr-Slimeball released his grip on John suddenly and, as John coughed painfully, he moved over to the table which he had all of his instruments on. He leaned down at the edge of the table and picked up the black duffel bag he'd brought his equipment in, and began to pack it away; quickly and efficiently as he ignored the continued sounds of violence outside the room.

All too quickly though he was finished and there was only one instrument left out, a single long scalpel-like blade which he held comfortably within his grasp as he moved back over to John and smiled down at him. Sherlock, who up until this point had been both silent and frozen, suddenly seemed to come alive with quite the flare of animated activity. He began to wriggle about and shout loudly, desperately for anyone to hear because they needed help; by Jove did they need it, "HELP! HELP DAMNIT! WE'RE IN HERE! LESTRADE! HELP!"

The interrogator was beside him in a flash, the blade arcing towards him, heading directly for his neck to slice through his jugular and kill him within a minute, but the blade didn't get any further than two centimetres from his neck as the door was thrown open and several armed officers from Scotland Yard burst into the room and one of them immediately took down the interrogator. Sherlock watched, in a sort of morbid fascination that was mixed with intense satisfaction, as the Slimeball's body jerked back as though the strings that held him up were being jiggled with before being cut entirely as he collapsed in an unmoving heap to Sherlock's right.

It took the armed officers a grand total of two minutes to free Sherlock of his restraints and to also free John who was too tired, too in pain, to do much more than groan and wince as his arms were gently jostled by the officers. Sherlock was at John's side in a heartbeat, checking him over with an almost frantic hysteria tainting his every move, every breath and every word from his mouth. It took too much out of John to reassure Sherlock that he was fine and wasn't going to die of internal bleeding and so he passed out, though not before firmly informing Sherlock that he was exhausted and could do with the rest unconsciousness would undoubtedly give him.

The last thing John recalled before the world went dark was the sound of Sherlock's voice arguing with someone who was trying to pry John out of the detective's locked arms; and he kind of liked being in Sherlock's arms because he felt safe in his embrace.

**...**

**...**

John was unconscious for near-enough three whole days, on a concoction of painkillers and sedatives, until he managed to wake up for longer than five minutes. He blinked and opened his eyes blurrily, only to shut them again as daylight assaulted his senses and it took him a good few minutes before he dared to reopen them and face the world. To his left, cramped and contorted, in the only chair in the private room he seemed to be in was none other than Sherlock Holmes who looked to have been living in the seat; not far from John's side. A strange thought indeed seemed to make its presence known as he realised that a fair portion of the things in the sitting area of Baker Street seemed to be in attendance in the room; apart from the obvious one being Sherlock there was also the skull, Sherlock's violin, his laptop not Sherlock's as per, and a couple stacks of books that he thought he'd seen on the shelves in the sitting room.

Though it must have been a nightmare for the nurses to navigate though John liked it because it made him feel less like a patient and more like someone who was being held against their will; and yeah, John was weird in a whole different way to Sherlock in that regard. He'd never liked being referred to as being a patient, especially since he was a doctor and a soldier so being in one place like a hospital for a prolonged period of time wasn't something he enjoyed; i.e. that meant he was being held against his will in a place of healing where he had no choice but to remain until such point that he could either be released or escape without detection.

He smiled in contentment because he didn't care whether he was a patient or a breathing cadaver since Sherlock was around and looking a little the worse for wear due to sleeping in such an uncomfortable position for at least two nights on the trot. Sighing and taking a careful breath John shifted his attention to the rest of the room which was exactly what you'd expect of a private room in an NHS hospital although the last time he checked London Bridge Hospital wasn't an NHS run hospital; he was pretty sure it was... private...

Oh... crap...

He pushed himself up slowly in the bed and winced as his ribs informed him that they were bruised and cracked. Looking about purposefully he spied the call button and was about to hit it when the sound of movement to his left drew his attention. Sherlock was yawning and uncurling himself from the chair in a way that just made John hate the man and the natural agility he possessed. He watched as Sherlock rubbed his face and froze, probably sensing something was different about the room. Slowly Sherlock's hand left his face and John's eyes locked with Sherlock's pale blue/grey orbs which shone with so many different things that John was suddenly afraid of what it all meant.

The pair stared at each other for a long time, each one taking in aspects of the other that allowed them to reach certain conclusions; Sherlock stared at John and noticed that the man was tired and worn out, healing slowly but surely from the ordeal he'd been through and he was alive, breathing and he had a pulse, Sherlock had checked it every hour on the hour during the days that John had been unconscious. John stared at Sherlock and saw that the man was tired, exhausted; both physically and emotionally, and looked to be worried, afraid that John was about to disappear. It was then and there that John realised that he had never told Sherlock that he loved him and he thought that he needed to rectify that problem because Sherlock deserved to know; Sherlock deserved to hear John confirm what Sherlock's deductions told him. And John also knew that Sherlock needed John to say the words because he had no prior reference for a relationship that was as serious as there's so John was the teacher in this regard.

Sherlock looked away from John, focusing intently on filling up the empty glass on the bedside table when John spoke, his voice rough and quiet, "I love you Sherlock."

Sherlock's head snapped to the side and his eyes burned into John with such intensity that John felt himself wither but he didn't dare look away because he felt like something important was happening between them and he'd be damned if trust issues and problems with eye-contact would stop this. Sherlock stared, and stared... and kept on staring and John kept staring back until Sherlock finally broke the silence that had descended with a soft but heart-felt whisper of, "I-I l-love you too..."

**...**

**...**

Within two days John was able to be released from the hospital and Sherlock was ready and waiting for him when he signed the last discharge paper, damn he'd seen more of those since he'd met Sherlock than he had when he'd been an F1. They got a black-hack back to Baker Street, even though there had been a perfectly serviceable unmarked Mercedes waiting patiently for them, and before Sherlock opened the door to 221 he swiftly turned on his heel and stormed over to the same unmarked Mercedes that had followed them all the way from the hospital home. He leant down and tapped on the window, not wanting to bother his time with opening the door; Mycroft's head appeared as the smooth glass descended into the door and Sherlock told him in no uncertain to not try anything with John ever again otherwise he'd ruin his entire life in ways that Mycroft couldn't even imagine.

And Sherlock meant it, dear God did he mean it! Because John was his doctor, his friend, his lover and Mycroft could go off and starting a war on the fucking-moon for all Sherlock cared because John was what he was concerned with; so Mycroft be damned. And people be damned. Everyone be damned because Sherlock had found his salvation and it was named John bloody Watson!

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_**END**_


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